


I can't exist within my own head, so I insist on haunting your bed

by waywardrenegade



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Rare Pairings, angsty Marc, boyler's still a bolt, self indulgent porn and feelings really, seriously best staal got a bit moody on me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2555741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrenegade/pseuds/waywardrenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marc grumbles and shuffles to the door slowly, expecting a door to door salesman or maybe someone inviting him to join their faith. He definitely isn’t prepared for Brian, hair mussed from the drizzle, smiling widely at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I can't exist within my own head, so I insist on haunting your bed

**Author's Note:**

> Major shout out to [teamfreeawesome](http://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreeawesome) for the wonderful beta as well as [kindofdanceit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kindofdanceit) and [tictactoews](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jean_iris/pseuds/tictactoews) for letting me flail at them/taking my random pairings in stride. <3
> 
> Title's from the 1975's "Haunt/Bed" because I'm unoriginal and still shit at titles. Also, the timeline's pretty spot on in terms of when they'd be able to meet up (Bolts play at MSG on November 17th, and both teams are off the 16th, hence why Boyler comes to visit when he does). 
> 
> Disclaimer: I think it goes without saying that if I had any affiliation with either of these guys, I wouldn't be writing fic about them.

Marc can’t help but be a little wistful about the way the autumn reminds him of Brian. Brian’s in Tampa now, all sunshine and warmth, and all Marc’s got is a pumpkin latte and a front yard that needs raking.

After he pushes the leaves into a mountain of color, Marc lets himself flop back among them. He imagines shoving Brian off balance and into the pile; imagines how he’d casually fall atop Brian and claim it was an accident. Marc misses him so much on days like this, a bone deep ache that never quite fades.

Marc makes himself a kettle of apple cinnamon tea as soon as he gets back into his house, the November chill numbing his fingers and leaving his cheeks rosy. He goes to pull down a second mug for Brian, only to remember it’s unnecessary.

On the 16th, it’s a lazy Sunday afternoon that finds Marc sprawled on the living room sofa with a Palahniuk novel, when there’s a knock at the door. Marc grumbles and shuffles to the door slowly, expecting a door to door salesman or maybe someone inviting him to join their faith. He definitely isn’t prepared for Brian, hair mussed from the drizzle, smiling widely at him.

He shuts the door in Brian’s face. It feels like a sucker punch to the solar plexus. Like a white hot knife digging in and twisting. He knows Brian’s not going to give in that easily though. Marc couldn’t be so lucky.

Marc goes back to the living room, grabs the worn plaid blanket from the corner chair, and wraps it around his shoulders. It’s childish and stupid, but it calms him, makes him feel less like he wants to crawl out of his own skin as he opens the door again.

Brian looks down at him, no small feat given Marc’s size, eyes hot with what Marc would only describe as want before he surges forward and knocks roughly into Marc. Brian’s gigantic foot kicks the door shut as his lips crash against Marc’s, stopping the spew of swear words pouring from Marc’s mouth. He’s in Marc’s space, the inexplicable scent of cedar that always clings to him invading Marc’s nose. It’s everything Marc’s wanted and everything he’s told himself he can never have again. Life’s funny like that.

“Marc, stop thinking. I’m here. Let’s not waste it,” Brian’s voice rumbles from just above him, reverberating through Marc’s chest like a second heartbeat. Marc takes a step back at that. Deep down he knows this is too good to be true, Brian showing up and apparently missing Marc the way Marc missed him, but hearing Brian admit its transience stings more than it should. He’s not going to show his hand that quickly though.

“Yeah, let’s not do that. Come on, Brian, _fuck me_ ,” Marc says lowly, rough and angry, because he can never have what he really wants.

Apparently that’s all Brian was waiting for because he’s on Marc scarcely a beat later. He kisses Marc thoroughly, steals the air from his lungs and replaces it with pain that’s so tangible that Marc’s almost drowned by it. Marc’s thin hands grasp at Brian’s hair, tug hard enough that it has to hurt, but Marc doesn’t care. He wants someone else to ache the way he has been, and if that person’s Brian, well then so be it. It’s sick but fitting.

When Marc yanks himself away long enough to strip off his thermal Henley, he sees Brian’s lip is split, and his tongue is stained red with blood Marc hadn’t even realized he’d drawn. Good. Marc can handle that. The animalistic fury and the desire to just hurt. It’s not a way he typically lets himself feel.

Brian, for the gentle giant act he’s perfected over the years, doesn’t hold back either. His quicksilver grin is sharp edged and dark as he grabs at Marc’s hips, sinks his nails in hard enough that Marc can feel them break skin. “You want to play like that? Think about it before you say yes; we have a game tomorrow,” comes Brian’s warning, eyes containing a brewing storm that’s equal parts anger and lust. He rolls his shoulders, probably trying to soothe the tension from the flight, but it’s as if he’s preparing for a battle.

“Oh, you _know_ I do, Brian. I want to make you hurt like I’ve been hurting without you. I just want,” Marc spits out, words tinged with more honesty and raw emotion than he meant to show. It’s too late now.

Marc can see when Brian’s carefully constructed calm begins to crumble, the way his fists ball so tightly that his knuckles whiten, how his jaw squares, how when he sheds his clothes he doesn’t even seem to hear the seams ripping with the force he exhibits. It’s easily the hottest thing Marc’s ever seen.

Marc just barely has his jeans down to his freckled thighs when Brian’s back in his space, dragging those big hands along every inch of exposed skin, teeth following soon after. Marc’s milky skin is littered with everything from the bruises of forming hickeys, crescents of teeth marks, and tiny wells of pooled blood from Brian’s sharp nails. He hopes some of the guys notice in the locker room; _wants_ them to ask, to be envious even.

Brian doesn’t even let Marc navigate to the bed they once shared, instead choosing to push him gently but firmly to his knees on the cold tile in the kitchen. Brian’s fingers card through Marc’s copper hair, tugging until Marc’s head is tipped back against the walnut cupboards, his throat exposed as Brian’s mouth closes in to bite at the soft skin revealed. The moan that follows sounds like it’s been ripped from Marc’s very soul.

Marc puts everything he has into this moment, bringing his mouth to Brian’s cock eagerly and sucking too hard just because he can. He wants Brian to feel good, but he also wants Brian to know that only he can give him exactly what he needs. Marc’s been lazy lately, not shaving, so the scruff along his jaw rubs Brian’s inner thighs a lovely shade of pink. He’s kind of _really_ into how that looks.

When Marc glances up at Brian, through lashes long and pale, Brian’s left hand is braced on the counter top and his forehead’s pitched forward, pressed against the cabinets. He looks wrecked and beautiful, and Marc’s just now hearing the litany of praise being mumbled beneath Brian’s breath. “So fucking good for me...missed you so goddamn much...you and your perfect mouth...make me come, Marc, I need it so, so badly…”

Marc works Brian in earnest then, cheeks hollowing and throat working around his thick cock, just this side of too much pressure, mouth hot and wet, and he knows that there’s no way Brian can go for much longer. He doesn’t.

Brian groans, long and loud, and spurts across Marc’s face. Marc did it on purpose just to get a rise from Brian, and he’s certain Brian knows it. Brian slides to the floor, boneless and dumb, but he darts forward to lick his come from Marc’s sharp jaw and brush his thumb through the mess on Marc’s cheekbone, massaging it into the thin skin there. He moves stealthily, hand wrapping around Marc tightly, using his own mess to ease the slide over Marc’s cock.

Marc watches, transfixed by the flex and dexterity of that big, big hand; how the tiny bones of his fingers each work together to bring Marc closer and closer to release. He can hear Brian’s harsh panting in his ear, mixed with filthy whispers. Marc’s lost in it, the feel of Brian’s hand, the realization that Brian’s somehow shifted them so he’s behind Marc, his back pressed to Brian’s chest.

Their breathing is perfectly synced, like it hasn’t been months since they’ve had this together, and, with a strangled cry, Marc’s spilling over Brian’s fist as he sinks his teeth into the meat of Brian’s bicep. Marc’s hair is in his eyes, dripping sweat that trails down the back of his neck and rolls across the planes of Brian’s abs.

Marc collapses into Brian’s hold as he calms, not caring that they’re completely naked and covered with sweat and come on the floor of his kitchen; that all the anger that he’d been keeping just under the surface has finally broken through. All he cares about in the moment is that Brian’s here and still his.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, con crit is welcomed and encouraged. Feel free to come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://davetrolland.tumblr.com) too. :))


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